


A Design of Darkness

by marchionessofblackadder



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-01
Updated: 2014-06-02
Packaged: 2017-12-31 04:46:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1027387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marchionessofblackadder/pseuds/marchionessofblackadder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Emma Swan crashes into the stolen black Cadillac on her way out of town, Belle French is an escaped asylum patient with only rumors of promiscuity and a lost custody battle to her name. So when the strange and stony Mr. Gold offers to help her after a lifetime of being everyone else's pawn, Belle accepts in the hope that she can claim back her son and her life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. On a White Heal-All

**Author's Note:**

> This is the sequel to Who Favor Fire, inspired by Robert Frost's Poem Design.  
> Twinkle is inspired by [Bluephone Studios pattern](http://www.etsy.com/listing/126495488/crochet-pattern-timothy-the-t-rex?ref=shop_home_active).

It took the EMTs and Sheriff Graham together to dislodge her legs from beneath the crushed console, and when they were finally able to bend it back enough, blood rushed through her legs and made her light-headed. She slumped back in the driver’s seat, dimly aware of hands on her arms, moving her as they unbuckled her seatbelt. Someone slipped their arms beneath her and lifted her from the car before laying her on a stretcher, and her head lolled to the side, pain radiating up her legs and pulsing in her head.

“Miss French, I need you to open your eyes,” one of the EMTs said, and when she did, he shined a bright light in her face. Without warning, bile rose in her throat, and she nearly threw herself off the stretcher, leaning over the side and vomiting terribly into the grass.

A soft, thick and sniffling child’s voice called, “Mama?”

“Come here, young prince,” Sheriff Graham said gently, and the EMT helped her to lay back on the stretcher. “Your mother’s just a wee sick, is all. They’re going to make her better, you’ll see.”

Groaning, she laid back at the insistent hands of the EMT, and she was grateful that at least his flashlight was turned off and her stomach was empty. They made quick work of pushing the stretcher up to the ambulance, but before they could lift her into it, she called out, “Sheriff, wait!”

It took a moment for Graham to maneuver to her side, and she grasped his sleeve, looking up at him through heavy lidded eyes. Her head was spinning, but she focused, squeezing his arm. “Don’t take him to the hospital. Please, don’t.”

Frowning, the sheriff shook his head, his kind eyes troubled. “I don’t understand, why no-”

“Just please, keep him away from there,” she pleaded before the EMT asked the sheriff to step aside. They lifted the stretcher into the back of the ambulance, and she took a deep breath before closing her eyes. Having been locked in the dark for so long, bright lights still hurt to look at, and her stomach was threatening to empty itself again, this time all over the poor medic’s shoes, so it was easier for her and everyone else if she simply remained still with her eyes closed.

“My son wasn’t hurt, was he?” she asked softly, turning her head towards the young man trying to take her blood sugar. He stopped trying to pinch her finger, holding her hand gently.

“No, ma’am,” he said quietly, squeezing her hand. “He was just fine.”

“Good,” she sighed, smiling and not even flinching when he stuck her with the needle and drew her blood. She had told him once, long ago, to always wear his seatbelt in the car, and he never forgot. It didn’t so much matter anymore that she’d been caught, that they were taking her back to the place she’d ran from as much as it did that her boy was safe. That was truly all that mattered.

The medics took her into the emergency room, rushing her straight into getting tested and looked over. While her legs were incredibly sore, the worst damage had been done to her head. A large sliver across the top of her left eyebrow was bleeding into her eye, and her head continued to ache.

“Miss French, it seems you changed your mind about staying with us?” a familiar voice said, coming up to her bed.

“Not on purpose,” she muttered, opening her eyes and squinting up at Dr. Whale. He’d picked up her chart and was looking at the papers with a frown before coming to her bedside and helping her sit up. “I was trying to run away.”

“And you succeeded,” he said, helping her find her balance. When she swayed, he caught her shoulders, frowning deeper. “You probably have a concussion."

“I vomited.” 

“Well that’s what happens when you hit your head against a steering wheel,” Dr. Whale said, tapping her nose before glancing back at her report and snorting. “Of cars that you steal. Really? You’re a thief now, too? Didn’t seem the type to me.”

“I didn’t wreck it,” she said, frowning when he massaged the base of her skull with his fingertips. When he came nearer to the top of her head, she hissed. “The woman driving the yellow bug hit me.”

“Maybe that’s so, but you’re the one facing charges for theft, kidnapping, and did I mention you broke out of our psychiatric ward? You’ve made a lot of people angry.” When he stopped, letting his hands drop, she looked up, feeling the hollow emptiness in her chest permeating through every inch of her. It must have shown on her face, for Dr. Whale’s own eyes softened, and he pushed back a lock of her hair before he cupped her cheek, whispering, “Why did you do it?”

Tears welled up in her eyes before she could stop them, her lips quivering against trying not to cry. “I don’t belong here, Victor,” she whispered, her tears falling anyway, one drawing a clear path over the blood smeared on her cheek. “You know I don’t. Why won’t you believe me?”

The sound of someone clearing their throat rather aggressively made both of them jump, and Dr. Whale straightened up to take a step back from her. When they looked back, her face paled to find her nurse, calmly standing in between the beds with her hands folded demurely over her starched white uniform, watching Belle with a mixture of satisfaction and coldness. “I’m sorry, Dr. Whale, but Miss French needs to have some scans run.”

“N-No, I’m fine-” she whispered, looking up at Dr. Whale with wide blue eyes. Her ears had begun to ring, and without thinking she reached out and took his arm. “Please, don’t do this, you know I’m-”

“Just do what she says,” Dr. Whale muttered, his eyes hardening in impatience, and she felt her will begin to crumble when two hands came to rest on her upper arms from behind.

“Do I need to help you relax, or are you going to be a good girl?” her nurse asked, and her eyes began to sting from tearing up. Closing them, she shook her head morosely and let her nurse lead her to the wheelchair. Using the sleeve of her stolen coat, she wiped the tears that streaked her cheeks as she was wheeled out of the ER and tempered the sobs building in her painfully tight chest that at least Graham would do right by her. The sheriff was good-and it had been such a small request. If anything could be spared from that terrible night, it was the small consolation that her little boy wouldn’t have to see her reduced to tears and being treated like an animal.

It was closer to early morning than late night by the time they finished with her scans. Her eyes were rolling closed on their own, and when next Belle awoke, it was late in the afternoon with a watery grey light filtering through her window. It hurt her eyes, so she let them flutter closed again, slowly becoming aware of the fact her entire body ached. Her legs were the worst, and she felt as if her muscles had been stretched and beaten on a butcher’s block underneath the sheets she’d been tucked into. Her head ached, too, a heavy, queasy pain between her eyes.

“...wake up, and only until then. She’s undergone too much trauma to even be receptive to questioning, let alone helpful.” She frowned at the voice of the sheriff, because it sounded as though he were standing just outside of her door. Why was he there?

“I think you’ve forgotten it is to whom you speak, sheriff,” a silky voice purred, low in pitch enough to crawl over her skin and make her want to wriggle from beneath her sheets. “She obstructed the law and I’m ordering you to arrest her.”

“I have a right to have a say in all this,” a thick, third voice huffed, nearly a pant, and her entire body tensed. It was so familiar, so bone-achingly familiar that she was sure she’d be sick. “I’m her blood-that should mean more than the law!”

Sheriff Graham’s voice was terse. “Well, it doesn’t.”

A small pat on her arm had her jumping nearly out of her skin, her eyes flying open and scrambling back against the bed as much as her sore muscles would allow. At her elbow beside the bed, her little boy of five years old stood with rounded eyes as icy blue as her own, looking up at her curiously. His white blond hair was dusting in his face, and he pursed his lips together in contemplating, pressing his mouth against the familiar cherry pink crochet tyrannosaurus he kept tucked under his arm. A thick lump knotted in her throat, but her own smile betrayed her emotions, weak and sad as it was.

“Come here,” she whispered, folding the blanket back enough that the little boy could hoist himself up onto the bed. It took maneuvering on both of their parts, but soon he was safely tucked against her side beneath her arm, his little corduroy trousers and thick blue sweater warming up. It was windy outside, and chilly-she could hear it against the windows. Once cuddled close against her, the arm not secured around Twinkle, his stuffed dinosaur, laid across Belle’s waist in a hug, and she had to fight down the painful sob tightening in her chest at being able to hug her boy again. It had been so long, she’d almost forgotten how warm he was-and how small.

Wendell sniffled against her shoulder, and she pulled back to look down at him, stroking his hair back and whispering, “Are you sick?”

Ignoring the talking building into shouting outside her room, Wendell shook his head slowly before whispering back, his nose red, “Are you?”

A tear she hadn’t known to be holding slipped down her cheek, and she shook her head, too. “No, sweetheart. I’m not.”

“Ms. Mills says you are,” Wendell whispered, hugging Twinkle close to his chest. The white patchwork stars that dotted the back of the dinosaur’s lumpy body were almost yellow, and she couldn’t help but wince at it. It had been the only time she’d been allowed anything sharp when her nurse had given her the pattern, and it had taken her weeks to make for Christmas. She wasn’t skilled, and the dinosaur itself was lumpy and uneven in body structure at best, but Wendell never went anywhere without him.

“Does she?”

Wendell nodded morosely, looking down at his stuffed animal while she stroked his hair over his ear, curling closer to the little boy. “Yes. She says I can’t see you anymore.” Tear filled blue eyes looked up at her, and she was sure she would shatter into pieces, just like porcelain scattering across hospital tile to collect dust under stretchers and bedpans. “She says I won’t see you ever again.”

“I will see you again,” Belle whispered, a fire burning in her voice and bringing fresh tears to her eyes. She slid her fingers through his hair to cup his cheek, and the little boy looked up at her with such miserable hopelessness that she was almost choking for air. He was so unhappy, and she was the cause of it. Curling her legs up and pulling the blanket up so that they were snuggled closer, she whispered, “Whenever you feel lonely, or sad, all you need to do is hug Twinkle as hard as you can. Can you do that?”

Sniffling, Wendell nodded and wrapped his arms around his dinosaur, pressing his face against the soft yarn and squeezing.

“Oh, see,” Belle whispered, mustering a smile for him when he opened his eyes. “See, when you miss me that much, when you love me that much-I can feel it too. I feel it right here.” She pressed her hand to her heart before using her thumb to dry his cheeks. “Because I love you that much, too.”

“What are you doing with him?” Both mother and son jumped at the sharp voice. Mayor Mills was standing in the glass doorway of the hospital room, her flinty eyes burning before she turned to the sheriff and gestured. “Do you see what I mean?”

“Wendell, son, come with me,” Graham said, turning away from Mayor Mills and trying to give the boy a smile. When the child hugged his mother tighter, he pressed his lips together, closing his eyes. “Please, don’t make this hard.”

“We’re just talking,” Belle said gently, looking down at her son before glancing back at the sheriff. “At least let me say goodbye properly.”

“You’re not supposed to even see him,” the third voice said, and Belle winced, visibly shrinking back from her father. Moe French took up the entire room, if he had a mind to, standing taller than a mountain and making Belle wish she could disappear. He looked even older and more tired than the last time she’d seen him, but his eyes were harder, too, twisting his hat between his restless hands marked with thorn scratches and the beginnings of his rue allergy. “He’s not yours.”

Her hand slid from the top of his head over his ear protectively, feeling a fire lick at her throat. Her anger would not serve her here, in front of every authority positioned against her, but her heart had begun to hammer against her chest just where Wendell rested his head. “Don’t say that,” she choked, flinching away when Moe started toward the hospital bed.

At her reaction, he stopped and frowned, looking to the boy who clung to her.

“I want her arrested,” Mayor Mills said impatiently, a feverish restlessness emanating from her as she shifted behind the florist and sheriff. Belle narrowed her eyes as the woman hooked a dark red painted nail on the leather of the sheriff’s jacket and tugged him toward the door. “Find Dr. Whale and her nurse. This is unacceptable.”

Sheriff Graham looked as though he were being torn in two, but with one unhappy glance back at Belle and Wendell, he turned and slipped out of the room to find the doctor. Belle felt a shudder pass through her entire body, watching him stride off, and she had a feeling she was watching her last defense against the wolves leave her to their mercy.

“Belle, I don’t want this to hurt,” Moe said gentler, drawing her eyes back to his weary face. It was too late for such a sentiment of course-he had done nothing but hurt her, and he couldn’t take that back. “Please, think of him-you’re...you’re confusing him.”

“I’m not confused,” Wendell said against her arm, muffled but with his own shy defiance, and Belle hugged him tighter.

“I’m not going to hurt him or myself. Just leave us _alone_ ,” Belle whispered, feeling tears well up in her eyes as she wrapped her arms tight around the little boy at her side. When the sheriff followed both Dr. Whale and her nurse back into the room, she scraped her heels against the mattress when the nurse came around the bedside and pulled her up out of the bed. Belle tried to lean away, but anxious she’d hurt Wendell, she lost the tug of war and stumbled up from the bed, earning a gently building and muffled cry from the little boy.

“Don’t be difficult, dear,” the nurse tried soothingly, in her ear, grabbing both her arms below her elbows, but that was her mistake. Belle’s own anger was reaching a boiling point, and she jerked her arm up enough to plant her elbow in the woman’s midsection, knocking her back into the machines.

Before she could reach back to the bed, though, Dr. Whale grabbed her around the middle, trapping her arms at her sides and restricting her movement. Fear and anger began bubbling up inside her chest, her claustrophobia brimming beneath her skin, and Belle threw back her head and screamed, struggling and thrashing, kicking her legs to throw Dr. Whale off balance enough to knock him into the wall. Wendell was crying in earnest now, even when the sheriff picked the boy up to soothe him.

But that was her job. She was his mother, and no one else’s. She was all he had, and he was all she wanted. Belle let out another scream when Dr. Whale fought her to get through the door, shouting at a passing nurse for a sedative and a stretcher with restraints.

“Belle, please, stop-” Moe tried, and Belle only screamed louder the harder Dr. Whale held her down, throwing her head to the side and shutting her eyes so tight that her tears had no where to go but down her cheeks. The mayor was yelling, and there was so much noise, but Belle could only hear Wendell crying and the sound of the nurse’s clicking heels and the knowledge of going back in that dark, dank hole of a cell racked her entire body with sobbing. She tossed her head back against the doctor’s shoulder and collapsing her legs to topple him over. If she could just get to Wendell, if she could just make everything stop, the tightness in her chest would go away, the walls would stop closing, and maybe people would stop shouting.

The sudden, earsplitting crack of metal made everything stop, and a deep voice thundered, “What is the meaning of this?”

Belle threw her head up, her dark hair hanging in her face, obstructing her view and sticking to her wetted cheeks. She was sure she looked like some kind of animal, struggling against Dr. Whale with her heart beating like a frightened doe, but an unfamiliar man with a cane had seemed to command the entire hallway’s attention enough that she was momentarily forgotten.

Until the mayor stepped in her line of sight, putting a hand out to block the speaker. “This is none of your concern-hospital matters.”

“So why are you here?” the man challenged, almost biting out the words.

No one said anything for a long moment, before the mayor scoffed, unbelieving someone would question her authority. “Because, Mr. Gold. It’s also a matter of the law.”

“Then I’m right where I need to be, it seems.”

The words were uttered quietly, dangerously, and Belle’s skin prickled. She’d gone still and limp in her shock, and Dr. Whale turned with her in his arms like a ragdoll, shuffling back and muttering in her hair, “Don’t say a word.”

“I don’t think-”

“My car was stolen,” the man said, and Belle strained her ears to listen. Her heart skipped a painful beat when she realized what was going on, and she dug her heels into the ground. “And totaled. The sheriff left me a voicemail, and I was told I’d find him here questioning the culprit. I came as soon as I was done collecting the rent.”

“Mr. Gold, you don’t really need to be here,” the sheriff said, and oh, Belle wished she could see around Dr. Whale. When he started to walk, she dug her heels harder into the ground and gritted her teeth, growling under her breath. At her noise, the doctor put his hand over her mouth and struggled with her down the hallway. “Miss-”

“You’ll be compensated for your trouble,” Mayor Mills jumped in, sounding starkly different from before. Almost nervous, which was odd and Belle really wished she could see her face, then. “The case is being settled as we speak.”

Not hardly, Belle thought viciously, and tossed her head back, catching Whale in the chin. He grunted a profanity that made Belle blush before pushing her flat against the wall, cheek pressed to the paint and trapping her arms, but it was enough for her to see down the hall. Wendell was watching her with his pale little face, red rimmed eyes and red nose, struggling in the sheriff’s arms, and Belle slapped her hands against the wall, her voice shrill and hoarse when she tried to cry, “Let him go!”

Hoarse as her voice was, it was strong enough to carry down the hall, and everyone turned to look at her, Whale leaning his shoulder into her back and pinning her against the wall so she wouldn’t hurt herself or him. When she found Graham’s eyes, she pushed against the wall again, huffing, “Can’t you see he doesn’t like it? Let him go!”

Her nurse, apron askew and hair mussed from their scuffle in the other room, bustled around her father and the sheriff, carrying a tray that Belle didn’t have to look at to know what it brandished. She hurried forward, whispering apologies to the doctor, but the man, Mr. Gold, bellowed, “Stop right there.”

Belle felt her heart constrict, watching the man in the dark suit with the silver lined hair limp towards them, the tap of his cane the only sound above beeping machines and the quiet undercurrent of life in the hospital. The mayor took two quick strides in her designer heels to put her hand on his shoulder, but he suddenly ripped back from her, baring his teeth like a wolf, “Don’t touch me.”

The mayor’s face went white as milk, and Belle forgot her anger and her panic in the face of her shock. She felt her brow lift and her eyes widen, especially when Mr. Gold turned that darkness on Dr. Whale. It was enough to make the man drop his hands from Belle’s back and give her enough room to turn back around, leaning back against the wall rather than up against it.

“And what do you think you’re doing?” Mr. Gold asked, his voice ringing with a dark merriment as he slid his cane up to hold in the middle, gesturing with the golden handle at the surgeon’s chest.

For his part, Dr. Whale neither looked intimidated nor afraid, but simply resigned. “She was going to hurt herself,” he explained calmly, rubbing his chin. Belle wondered if she’d made him bite his tongue, and she was almost sorry for it. “Or others.”

“So you mean to tell me that this slip of a child,” Mr. Gold nearly threw the handle of his cane in Belle’s face gesturing at her, making her shrink back against the wall. “Not only takes a team of hospital attendants, but a doctor to restrain? After a car accident?”

The mayor crossed her arms behind Mr. Gold, narrowing her eyes in suspicion.

The man scoffed then, his mouth twitching in a smile that showed a gold tooth when he looked at her, his eyes crinkling in admiration, though she couldn’t tell if he was mocking her-or everyone-when he did it. “I have to hand it to you, Miss…?”

“French,” Dr. Whale supplied.

Mr. Gold glared at the doctor, showing his teeth. “Was I talking to you?” When Dr. Whale quieted, dropping his chin to his chest and looking as though he’d swallowed a lemon, the cane was then pointing back at Belle and her stomach knotted up. Mr. Gold’s eyes were hawkish, dark and simmering like coals, but strangely, she wasn’t afraid of him. He was more like a shark, testing the waters and curious to see what he’d bump into, and Belle swallowed down the intimidation, thankful for the easier-to-breathe air. “Are you or are you not the one who stole my car?”

Hesitating for only a second, Belle bobbed her head in a nod.

Satisfied with this, Mr. Gold smirked, letting his cane slide through his hand to the floor by his polished black dress shoe. “And...you just thought you’d go for a Sunday ride?”

The encroaching silence crawled up her arms, and her eyes glanced back at the mayor, who was watching her with smoldering eyes, and back to the sheriff, her son, and her father. Looking at Mr. Gold, she lifted her chin and shook her head. “N-No...I was running away.”

“Away from what?”

“Here.”

“I don’t suggest a Cadillac, dear. Terrible gas mileage,” Mr. Gold snorted, before turning and looking at the mayor, throwing his voice down the hall. “I want to speak to the doctor in charge.”

“Mr. Gold-”

“Now.” It wasn’t a shout, but his snarl was so sharp, so splintering and harsh that everyone flinched at the command.

“That’s-that would be me,” Dr. Whale said, clearing his throat.

Belle saw Mr. Gold roll his eyes as he turned back to face the man, as if it were a chore. He had a different kind of command than the mayor that Belle couldn’t recognize. Where she wanted to flinch and hide from the mayor, the power with which Mr. Gold spoke was authoritative-but fair. He wasn’t going to bring down hellfire on them all without good reason. He rested both hands atop the handle of his cane and cocked his head to the side, full of doubt and asking, “Really? You?”

“Don’t patronize me,” Dr. Whale growled, his own anger flickering in his eyes.

“Oh, I think you’ve earned it. Because from what I’m gathering, this young woman was able to escape psychiatric institution, bypassing guards, doctors, nurses, and security staff. That gives her enough time to walk at least ten blocks to find my car, break into it, find the spare key, and get almost out of town without an alarm being raised. So, I’d say you’re facing one of two problems, Whale,” Mr. Gold smirked, and that was truly an ugly look, Belle thought. Black eyes, flashing teeth, wrinkled nose, his hands tightening over the handle of his cane. “You’re either going to face severe charges from the United States department of health and human services for lacking in proper precautionary security-not to mention that this woman is malnourished and being sedated and restrained without proper due cause-” Mr. Gold turned with too much grace to nail his eyes on the mayor, who visibly flinched. “-or, the city is going to come under fire for wrongful admittance to an asylum.”

Mayor Mills narrowed her eyes. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“You can’t possibly tell me that this girl produces the symptoms of a mental disorder that warrants psychiatric incarceration while remaining perceptive and self-aware enough to bypass an entire hospital staff,” Mr. Gold said easily, reaching into his suit to withdraw a shining pocket watch from his waistcoat. Satisfied with the time, he clipped it shut, his hair falling back from his face when he looked back up at the mayor. “Because you see, Madame Mayor, it’s either I present such a case to the district attorney and have the entire hospital shut down on the grounds of malpractice, or you get a very nasty case delivered to your own front door. So tell me dearie, how far are you willing to let this go?”

“You don’t have the power or authority to do any of these things, Gold,” Mayor Mills said, her teeth clicking as she took a step to stand toe to toe with the man. “You’re not Miss French’s legal representation.”

“Well, I could be,” Mr. Gold said with a ravenous smile, turning on a dime, slowly, to face Belle who was frozen against the wall, watching with wide blue eyes as he looked at her again, this time with his face filled with a warring emotion-determination, sadness, fever. “What do you say, Miss French? Would you like to leave your current accommodations?”

Her mouth was dry and her heart was squeezing itself through her ribs. Everyone was staring at her, but all she could really see, when she looked from Mr. Gold’s eyes, was the absolute look of hope on Wendell’s face, his little fists wrapped in Sheriff Graham’s leather jacket and watching with rapt attention as if he was seeing his favorite superhero saving the day. The mayor looked like if she opened her mouth, her teeth would drip with venom, and that was enough for anyone to shrink away-and on any other day, Belle would have. She would have taken refuge in the needle they put in her arm, allowed them to put her back in the hole where she’d crawled out of because she was not brave, but for the first time in perhaps her entire life, she was being given a choice. And the look on her son’s face was all the bravery she needed.

“Yes.”

“So just to be clear that I’m keeping up,” Dr. Whale put a hand up, eyes squinting at Mr. Gold like he was an insect under a microscope. “You’re...the legal representation of the woman who stole and totaled your car?”

“No, I’m the legal representation of the woman who borrowed my car. The woman who wrecked it is boarding up at Granny’s Bed and Breakfast,” Mr. Gold said smoothly, ignoring the mayor’s mouth dropping open and Belle’s widening eyes.

“Ah, there was a wolf in the road, actually,” Sheriff Graham clarified. When they turned to look at him, he adjusted the small boy he held in his arms, clearing his throat. “It...well it’s on the report.”

There was a pregnant pause, everyone either blinking or glancing at each other nervously. Mr. Gold rolled his eyes before he gestured with his hand that held his cane, inclining his head to Belle, murmuring, “Miss French, after you.”

Wendell squirmed against the sheriff’s chest, holding out his arm that was not wrapped around his stuffed animal, and Belle pushed away from the wall on shaking legs, padding quickly to close the gap before the mayor took one step to block her way. She towered over her in her designer high heels, giving a quick shake of her head. “Absolutely not. You lost custody.”

“That’s not-”

“Excuse me?” Mr. Gold stepped up behind Belle, but the mayor didn’t spare him a glance, smiling down at Belle, whose own eyes hardened into a glare.

“I never had a case,” Belle said tersely, feeling more confident when her voice didn’t crack like she felt she was about to, splintering and shattering all over the floor. Her anger was tainting her sadness, though, and she tightened her fists at her sides, tucking her chin. “You nor anyone else gave me that much.”

“Legally, he’s in your father’s care,” Mayor Mills said patiently, crossing her arms with a raised eyebrow. “You can’t take him with you. It would be termed kidnapping-like you tried to do once already.”

“He’s mine!” Belle bared her own teeth on impulse, but Mr. Gold grabbed her upper arm and kept her rooted to the spot. Half of her wanted to shrug him off, push past the mayor and grab Wendell. She had never been so angry, though-it was foreign and unpleasant, sitting hot in her chest and in her throat. She was ready to scratch and bite and claw her way past the people who had tried to help her by taking away her life, yet the rational part of her knew she would never win that way.

“Do you have that in writing?” Mr. Gold asked calmly.

The mayor finally looked at him, her eyes narrowing to darkened slits and looking more like a serpent than ever. “On me?” she asked, holding out her arms. “No, of course not.”

“Then until you do,” Belle glanced up at Mr. Gold, watching a muscle in his cheek twitch. “Miss French’s son legally belongs with her. If the custody case-the one that apparently didn’t take place-is only in effect as long as Miss French is incarcerated and there’s no written declaration of the arrangement, there’s nothing stopping her.”

Moe French seemed to reanimate himself in that moment, having stood beside the sheriff and attempted to keep up with the beratement for the entire mess. He stepped forward, waving his wrinkled and twisted hat at Mr. Gold, “Now wait just a minute here, Mr. Gold, you have no right-”

“You have more to lose than anyone, French,” Mr. Gold snarled, making Belle’s veins turn to ice and even the mayor paled. Moe’s Adam’s apple bobbed when Mr. Gold pointed his cane at him. “I don’t think you have the right to even speak, as it stands.”

As Belle stepped forward and met Wendell’s outstretched hands to take him in her arms, Moe’s face turned a deepened pink in his anger, and his voice shook to keep from shouting. “You won’t always be able to push people around to get what you want,” he said, decidedly not looking at Belle but instead glaring at Mr. Gold resolutely. “There’s going to come a day when you’ll know what it feels like to lose something you love, something you’ve worked for.”

Mr. Gold didn’t say anything, and the utterly charged air in the shady hospital hallway was difficult to breathe in. Afraid to lift her head, she trembled when the older man’s hand came to rest on her back to guide her around her father and away from the do-gooders and naysayers. She held her breath the entire time, shuffling awkwardly and pressing her mouth and nose into her child’s icy blond hair. He smelled like fresh soap and the peppermint candies he enjoyed so much.

They stopped at the front desk long enough for Mr. Gold to initial her discharge papers, and Belle continued to pretend he wasn’t looking at her and Wendell, though she could feel it out of the corner of her eye. She was too afraid of what the look would be in his dark, hawkish eyes, and her head was fuzzy from the pain medication they’d given her earlier that day. The terms of her release had yet to settle in, so instead she sat in her hospital gown, thick grey tights and her ratty cardigan upon the wooden bench outside the hospital doors, letting Wendell sit on her lap and lay his head against her chest.

“Are we going home now?” Wendell asked quietly, his words muffled in his stuffed dinosaur. His fear echoed her own, and she wondered briefly if they would ever learn to speak without looking at the floor, without trembling or feeling caged. Her little broken boy and she were cowards, but they had each other, she supposed. It wasn’t too late, though-she didn’t have the strength of mind or heart to be brave, but perhaps her son could do all the things she could not.

“I don’t know,” Belle whispered, watching the occasional car drive down the street.

The sound of the glass doors automatically opening made her twitch, but she forced herself to sit still, to hug her boy close and not tense up when Mr. Gold sat beside them with space for the gospel in between. He was looking at them again, and Belle couldn’t bring herself to meet his eyes. He’d just made a room full of enemies, and there were too many crude imaginings that he could evoke from her as payment.

“I called us a cab,” he finally said, twirling his cane between his palms resting between his knees. “I would put you up in a room at Granny’s, but…”

“The mayor would just throw us out,” Belle mumbled, watching the slight drizzle turn into a misty shower from underneath the portecashe. “Just out of spite.”

“Yes,” Mr. Gold murmured, turning his face away. “Probably,” he paused, rubbing his mouth before he sighed heavily as if he had the weight of the world on his shoulders. When she glanced at him from behind the matted curtain of her hair, he sat back against the bench. “You...that is, if you have no where else to go-”

“Mama,” Wendell whispered, tugging at the sleeve of her sweater. Belle looked down, covering his little hand with her own. He looked up at her with mournful blue eyes, whispering, “I’m hungry.”

“Oh…” Belle blinked, her eyes widening. Of course he was hungry-when had he last eaten? Had Graham given him anything? Her father? Heart aching in her chest, the sick feeling in the pit of her belly settled heavily enough to make tears spring in her eyes.

“Let me help you,” Mr. Gold said breathlessly, like he’d been holding it in, and when Belle turned to him, he was staring at them as if they were going to bite him. A car with bright headlights pulled up beneath the car port, and he leaned heavily on his cane, more than he had before, and looked at Belle with a strange hurt in his eyes. Oh, she wanted to apologize, if she could know what she had done. Gone was the man who’d liberated her from her demons and instead all she saw was a little man who seemed to be trying not to tremble when she met his eyes. “Some dinner, perhaps, and then we can talk.”

The idea of refusing wasn’t an option. There was no way she could go home, and there was no one she knew that would welcome them without penalty. Belle didn’t want charity, the overhanging dependence of others surrounding her life, but she was not in a position to bargain when her child had an empty belly and tear stains on his cheeks. Nodding, Belle stood up and followed him to the cab, her mind turning to thoughts of how to repay Mr. Gold’s unfathomable kindness.

Even if it took the rest of her life, she would find a way.


	2. Holding Up a Moth

If he didn’t find a place to sit down soon, he was going to faint. Hearing the name Emma, _Emma Swan_ had been enough to make him dizzy, to knock him breathless and stumble under the blinding white hot pain of his mind being washed with three hundred years worth of memories. The notion that the curse had worked, that time would soon begin to turn once more, had his nerves sparking and sizzling with life he hadn’t felt as long as he’d been Mr. Gold.

He’d gotten the call from the sheriff early that morning, but rent day was his busiest time of the week. He didn’t need a car to collect, but remembering himself, remembering Rumpelstiltskin was enough to ease his queasy stomach and put a sense of glee in his smile at the idea of pinning whoever totalled his car. He would enjoy extracting a price in this world with his mind fresh again. Of course he’d never turn down the chance to put Regina in her place, either, but why should she care so much about it was beyond him-until he saw her, his lovely, brave, foolish little maid crumbled and crying against the wall.

It was too much, and he needed to _think_.

His hand shook as he offered the money to the cab driver, swallowing thickly when he heard the little boy whisper to his mother, “Mama, it’s a castle.”

They stood side by side on the wet pavement, autumn leaves sticking to the bottom of their sneakers. They held hands, the little blond, blue eyed boy clutching a stuffed animal while his mother, wide eyed, wild-haired, sallow and sad stared up at the large Victorian house. It was getting dark earlier now that winter was upon them, and the street lights had already turned on, casting a golden glow over both. She’d read by the fire every evening with that same glow against her hair, but that was the only similarity of the woman she’d been that she wore now.

“Come inside,” Mr. Gold said quietly, leading the way up the path to the front steps. His heart was thumping painfully against his breast, that dried up old organ shaking off dust and grime as he unlocked his front door. He could still remember the promise Regina had made him, a life of comfort, and she had kept her end of that bargain splendidly. The small estate was antique and timeless, all polished wood and rich furnishings. It could probably be something out of a ghost story, if it hadn’t been so beautiful.

He held the door open for them to shuffle inside, Belle leading her boy by the hand and shaking rain drops from their hair and clothes that glinted in the light of the stained glass windows. He locked the front door behind them, resting his palm flat against the polished wood, and took a deep, grounding breath.

“It’s dark,” the little boy said quietly, muffled like he was speaking into his mother’s skirt.

Wordlessly, Mr. Gold turned and limped down the shadowy hallway until he could find the switch. Warm light filled the entryway, and he did the same for the parlor. The wallpaper was a deep embellished rose with dark, shiny cherry wood molding and embellishments over sleek hardwood floors carpeted with the thickest Persian rugs detailed with scrollwork of golds and blues. Oh yes, Regina had been thorough-especially in the three sets of staircases. He didn’t know what was more mocking, the stairs or the gold handle of the cane.

“Let me take your coats,” Mr. Gold muttered, gesturing with his hand for Belle to turn. She slipped her coat off quickly, handing it to him in a bunch so there was no chance of him actually touching her before she knelt down to unbutton the thick wool peacoat of the boy, handing that off next. He hung their coats up, taking more time than he truly needed to before having to face her again. When he did, he found Belle on her knees and Wendell sitting on the second step of the stairs as she took off his little sneakers, her dirty white Keds sitting neatly beside her feet.

“What are you doing?”

Belle’s fingers froze over the laces of her son’s shoes, and they both looked up at him with the same wide blue eyes. “I...it’s just the floors…” Belle gestured helplessly with her son’s tiny yellow Converse sneaker at the rugs, drawing her eyebrows together. She seemed to be considering something with deep concentration.

“So no mud,” Wendell finally said, though it sounded more like a question. He pressed his mouth back down to his stuffed dinosaur. He wiggled his blue socked foot on his mother’s thigh, staring up at Mr. Gold emotionlessly.

The woman had been locked up for nearly _thirty_ years on unjust charges, and she was worried about some dirt on the floor?

The timid, waxen little creature let her eyes fall to his own polished shoes, and she pursed her lips firmly, seeming to make a decision and turned away, untying her son’s other shoe. “We have manners,” she murmured quietly. When she’d taken them both off, she moved on her knees to set the shoes near the door before standing up. She still wore her thick grey tights, the ugly hospital gown, and threadbare cardigan. At least the boy appeared dressed warmly enough, but Mr. Gold wouldn’t forget to turn the heater up before they went to sleep.

Hesitating, he nodded. This wasn’t Belle, he had to remember that much. This was a cursed persona, only what Regina had relayed to put over Belle’s face. That set his teeth on edge, and he turned on his heel and limped down the hall into the kitchen. However, Regina knew Belle couldn’t have been very extensive. There was hardly nothing of the real Belle left to this wisp of a thing. The queen had known enough of her lands and her father through news, perhaps a little more. She’d also thought Belle was dead-and so had he. He couldn’t be sure what Regina had or hadn’t done with Belle, but she had certainly been upset to see him finding her in the hospital.

That would be remedied, soon enough, too.

He pulled pots and pans from the cabinets with seasonings and glanced at the thawed chicken in the sink he’d placed there that morning. Whatever he’d planned on cooking with it would have to wait now. Belle had pulled stools from the bar out and picked up Wendell to sit him on one before sitting beside him so as not to get in the way. Hesitating again, and becoming frustrated that it was turning into a habit, he shoved the pot back into the cabinet with more force than it required before asking, “What did they give you to eat in the hospital?”

There was a pause at his back, and he wished he was strong enough to look at her. Instead he opened the pantry and scanned the stocked shelves for something he could feed Wendell with. Living as an older bachelor didn’t allow for a child’s limited palate.

“Usually some kind of meat...vegetables. Potatoes. And jello,” Belle finally said, sounding disappointed and small.

Peanut butter was a child’s staple in this world, or so his fake memories of cheery television commercials reminded him, and Mr. Gold was relieved to find he had some. It was an extremely tiny jar, and it had a thin film of dust over the top of it. He couldn’t remember buying it, but it had never been opened so it was probably still good. Finding a plate, bread, and the bananas he’d bought earlier in the week, Gold placed the things down on the counter in front of mother and son and set to work making a sandwich, keeping his eyes on the work and his voice as disinterested as he could manage. 

“I usually eat rather rich meals. I’m afraid it will be too heavy for you, though,” he said by way of conversation, covering the bread in the crunchy peanut butter. When he glanced up at Wendell, the boy was watching his hands with wide blue eyes like he was counting the minutes until Gold set the food down in front of him. Tilting his head, he asked, “Do you like bananas, Wendell?”

Belle blinked, startled, and looked down at her son who very carefully set his dinosaur up on the counter. He looked up at his mother questioningly, and she nodded with encouragement.

“Yes,” the boy said. After another moment, he added, “With honey.”

“Wendell,” Belle whispered, admonishing him like a reprimand.

Rumpelstiltskin felt his heart disintegrate. “It’s no trouble,” he said weakly. There was something pulling at his chest, tightening and stealing all the air in the room whenever she looked at Wendell that way, as if she were afraid he’d disappear. And when she turned her eyes on him instead, with nothing but fear and miserable intimidation to be saddled with a monster, he wanted to break something, if only hoping it might hurt a little bit more than what he was feeling. There had been a time when she’d been mistress of his castle, queen in all that was his but by name, and to see her shy away at the smallest things was a new kind of hurt he didn’t know possible. A hollowness between his ribs that wouldn’t go away. 

“I have honey,” he went on, clearing the painful knot from his throat and finishing the peanut butter. He took a knife from the drawer and peeled a banana, slicing it onto the bread. “Things may go easier, if you tell me what you like, too.”

“We shouldn’t take-” Belle paused, looking down at her hands in her lap, her ratty brown hair looking like a creature from the lost world and falling into her face. She bit her lip and tried again, “We shouldn’t take more than what we need.”

“You need much, Miss French, from what I can see,” Mr. Gold murmured sadly, pretending not to notice her tears or Wendell’s discomfort. Instead, he went to his tea tray that was a center piece to his island counter and retrieved the honey before drizzling a spoonful on each slice of bread, cutting them both in halves and setting the plate before the child. Wendell looked up at him with curiosity and a deep, aching sadness in his eyes, and Mr. Gold nodded to him. He picked up one of the small sandwiches and bit into it, his fingers becoming sticky, but he made steady work of munching on the nuts of the butter and the seeds in the bread, peanut butter sticking to his cheeks.

“Thank you, Mr. Gold,” Belle whispered mournfully, watching her son instead of her benefactor.

“Of course, dear,” he said, stopping the next few reckless words before they tumbled out of his mouth. Instead, he looked down at his cane and muttered, “All you ever have to do is ask.”

The gravity of that truth weighed heavily on him as he turned away. After fetching the boy a glass of milk to unclog the peanut butter from the roof of his mouth, Mr. Gold set to work chopping vegetables, intent on making soup that Belle’s stomach could handle, and he lost himself in the familiar rhythm of preparing his own son’s favorite meal. It had the same scent, even in this new world, an earthy aroma of the vegetables and the nutty flavor of cheese that melted over the top. It was a pleasant counter to his thoughts of the last time he saw Belle, when she’d smiled so brightly up at him from the stairs and touched his hand with a promise on her lips and a song in her heart. He had thought she had been so happy, in that moment, so full of life. He had not wanted to believe that her conviction was so fickle that she would leave him that easily, with his rose still in her little hands and his gold in her pockets. He didn’t begrudge her those things of course, and where he wished to feel anger, he could only resign himself to defeat.

Belle had left him, and for good reasons, he was sure. With anyone else, he might have burned down the entire forest to find them, crumbled castles and crushed mountains to exact his price so that the deal would never be broken. It wasn’t for the lack of desire to do those things, either, that he hung his head over the pot of soup while he stirred, but he simply felt a hollowness where his anger usually slept. His guilt was thick in his throat, too, when he poured her a bowl and set it before her, watching her flinch and bite her lip and look away with a mumbled thanks, because she had tried to leave him and here he was, dragging her back into his castle again.

Well, when she recovered her memories, she need not stay. The thought alone made him feel sick enough to turn down his own dinner, pouring the untouched soup back in the pot with disdain, but he meant it in his heart, the worthless bit of humanity he had left to him. She was no prisoner, no bartering chip that he kept behind a glass case. If she wanted to leave, she need not explain nor defend her choice. This was Belle, who made her own decisions-or it would be, as soon as her curse broke.

Washing the dishes with scalding water gave him something to do until Belle’s spoon scraped the bottom of the bowl, and he glanced at her, looking between her and Wendell. “Would you like more?” he asked carefully.

“No, thank you,” Belle said, sounding so different that he looked up in surprise. She sounded almost content. Her face was ever so flushed about her cheeks, a sight better than before, and she tried to smile at him. It was more of a grimace, but he’d take what he could get. She twisted her sleeve in her lap and bit her lip, glancing back down at her empty bowl. “It was very good.”

“Thank you,” Wendell added quietly, and when Gold looked at the boy, his eyes were down, and he was clutching his stuffed animal again. His chest was ready to cave in as it was, but the boy was an insurmountable thorn that only twisted deeper every time Gold remembered him.

Needing more air than the room was allowing, the pawnbroker turned away and cleared his throat, scrubbing the empty pot with vehemence. “The bathroom is upstairs, if you’d like to wash up, first door to the left. Your room will be two down from that.”

The steel wool scraped away the residue, and he watched it slough off until he heard their chairs across the floor and the soft padding of their socks as they left the room. He set the dishes in the drying rack, then went about cleaning the rest of the kitchen, listening to the tub fill up stairs and the quiet thumping of footfalls. It was when he was locking the garden doors, intent on getting a sizeable drink in the parlor that he turned to find Wendell standing in the threshold of the kitchen and hall, staring at him with his dinosaur beneath his arm.

Mr. Gold watched him, and when he stepped forward, the little boy took a quick step back. Suddenly, Gold wished the earth would swallow him up all over again, and his outstretched hand fell to his side weakly. “Wendell,” he choked, blinking his eyes furiously. “What is it?”

The boy watched him with reproach, a mixture of hurt and suspicion. He was comfortable enough with him when Belle was in the room, but alone, he didn’t appear to like him at all. Unsurprisingly, considering their last encounter. “Mama needs a towel, and clothes,” he said quietly, his large blue eyes looking too big for his face.

“Oh.” Of course she did, and it’d be best to burn the things she’d worn at the hospital, too. He nodded, and stepped forward again, slowly towards the boy, relaxing when he didn’t flinch away again. He held out his hand that didn’t hold his cane, and felt a deep anxiety settle itself above his heart. “Would you like to come with me? To pick something out for her?”

Gold didn’t realize he was hoping the boy would agree, nor that he was holding his breath until Wendell nodded his head reluctantly. He didn’t take the offered hand, but he walked ahead of him down the hall, his little jeans dragging under his heels on the floor as he neared the stairs. Running a hand down his face and rubbing his mouth, Mr. Gold followed him until they got to the top of the stairs and he opened his own bedroom door. It was immaculate, the thick scarlett duvet and creamy sheets tucked and warm by the fire in the grate. He didn’t have any clothes for children, save for Bae’s baby clothes back at the shop, and Wendell could hardly use those things. Finding two plain white t-shirts, two pairs of socks, and one of his older flannel robes worn soft, he folded them neatly and turned to see Wendell staring at something up on the dresser.

Frowning, Mr. Gold set the clothes on the bed and limped closer to the little boy to see what he was so interested in. The glint of gold caught his eye, and the pawnbroker felt his breath catch his throat. When he looked down at the boy, Wendell was staring at him sadly.

“It looks like mine,” Wendell said, turning back to the Rose Trellis Faberge Egg displayed beneath the crystal dome amidst countless other treasures upon the dresser. Quietly, he added, “‘cept mine was blue.”

Fingers twitching over the handle of his cane, Mr. Gold knelt down upon his knee, his mouth dry as a bone. Panic was rising fast and furious in his chest, and he whispered, “Wendell?”

The boy turned around finally to look at him, his big blue eyes filled with tears. His lip was quivering, and he hid it behind his stuffed animal. “Yes?”

Licking his lips, Mr. Gold steadied himself with his cane and lowered his voice to a whisper. “What do you remember?”

“I flew with Mama,” Wendell said softly, only hesitating when he met Gold’s eyes. His chubby fingers played nervously with one of the felt stars on the stuffed animal, and he bit his lip, a habit that he shared with Belle. “After I left home.”

Mr. Gold’s hand went to his mouth, but it only muffled the sob that broke through his exterior. Needles were pricking beneath his skin, and he wanted to hurt everyone-himself most of all. The days after Belle had left had been a frenzy of sleepless, restless anger in searching for her. He’d had Wendell search by sky, to no avail, and when they’d returned, Regina had been awaiting him with news. Everything had fallen apart after that, and it was all his own fault.

“I’m so sorry, Wendell,” Mr. Gold whispered, his chest aching with restraining his tears. He reached his hand out again, and shuddered when the little boy rested his hand in his. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t-”

“Wendell?”

Standing up haggardly, Mr. Gold let go of the boy’s hand reluctantly at Belle’s voice from out in the hall, and he moved stiffly and placed the folded clothes in the little boy’s arms. Wendell watched his face, but he couldn’t tell what the child was thinking as he shuffled out of the bedroom. Stepping close to the door, behind the wall, Gold leaned his shoulder against the jamb and listened to Belle’s soft voice growing quieter as they walked down the hall. The door of the guest bedroom closed like a whisper, but she might as well have slammed it from the way it shook through him. He rested his hand flat against the wall, liking for all the world to put his fist through it. 

Wendell somehow remembered-somehow, he’d gotten past the curse, and Rumpelstiltskin felt sick all over again. He only just made it into his connecting bathroom before he spilled his stomach into the toilet, coughing and gagging as he grappled for the back of the porcelain to keep him steady on his knobby knees.

The curse had its savior to break it, and his son was in the world again, but for that moment, Rumpelstiltskin wished he could forget these long dead sins that had come back to life. He wished he could forget everything.


	3. Ready to Begin the Morning Right

A hot bath and a warm, soft bed went a long way in bringing back the dead. A bath deep enough that Belle could submerge herself in, holding herself under like a naiad waiting to emerge and speak with the world above. There was a variety of oils and salts and milky potions she could have dumped into the water, decorating Mr. Gold’s bathroom counter, but Belle didn’t want to touch anything more than necessary, didn’t want to take more than they needed. She used a plain white cake of soap that smelled like lavender, massaging the creamy suds over her body until it felt softened. The hospital so often left her feeling dry and still quite dirty despite the cold harsh hose of their shower. There was a thin tube of scentless shampoo that she used, next to a matching bottle of conditioner. Her hair took the longest, and Belle felt guilty for savoring being able to lather her thick curls and work out the tangles and matted knots with her fingers. When her bath began to turn cold, she unplugged the drain and slipped on her way toeing out, catching herself on the towel rack with a dull thud, knocking her elbow painfully against the wall.

The misstep rattled the fixtures on the walls, and it was only a moment later she heard quick, muted footsteps on the carpet outside the bathroom and the familiar tapping of a cane. A knock came on the door followed by a concerned voice asking, “Miss French?”

“I’m fine!” Belle called, her voice cracking as she pulled herself up, she yanked a towel off the rack as she hopped onto the fluffy bathroom rug, wrapping herself up quickly both from the cold and to keep from soaking the pristine floor. “Just...just a slip.”

“Do you-” Mr. Gold’s voice cut off for a moment, and she took the time to dry herself off, her movements short, sharp and almost harsh against her skin. She was in the middle of stepping into a pair of cotton drawstring pants and a white t-shirt when he asked “-do you need help?”

The door slid open haltingly, and Belle peeked out, brown curls tumbling into her eyes, dripping water on her shoulders and down her back. Mr. Gold had both hands on his cane, and his knuckles turned white at the sight of her. She flicked the bathroom light off with clumsy fingers as she stepped out into the hallway, making her host retreat a few paces to give her room.

“I got...water on the floor,” Belle murmured, looking back at the door. One of the faucets was dripping now, and she and Mr. Gold stared into the darkened room before she looked back at him. “I’ll mop it if you-”

“It’s just a bit of water,” Mr. Gold said, turning to look at her. She couldn’t read his face, and it surprised her how much that bothered her. There was so much _there_ -so many emotions and things he seemed to be thinking. She should’ve been able to decipher it, but it was like picking up a lost language. Or perhaps a dead one. His eyes glanced down at her shoulders, then her feet, bare and peeking out from beneath the hem of the grey cotton pants. “We’ll find you clothes tomorrow.”

Belle blushed and felt an uncomfortable-almost sick feeling settle in her belly. She felt naked in these new clean clothes and in her new clean skin, holding her soiled hospital wear and blinking at kind Mr. Gold in his dim hallway. “That would be nice,” Belle hedged, shifting her weight from foot to foot.

“Here.” Gold stepped forward and relieved her of her laundry burden, taking the soiled garments and wet towel from her. Belle stepped forward too, to protest.

“I can do it if you show me whe-”

“Miss French,” Mr. Gold’s voice was so quiet that she stilled, frozen like a rabbit until her eyes looked up to meet his, glinting in the light like a cat’s. “Your son is asleep. You should join him. We can discuss duties or chores or...or whatever else you wish tomorrow. But for now, please-” his voice went thin, and he tugged the clothes from her, retreating another series of awkward steps with his cane. “It’s been a...trying day for us all. It would be best if we went to bed.”

Belle knew he was right. She didn’t know where this stubbornness was coming from, but it was slowly creaking to life like a rusty cog inside her biological makeup. She swallowed hard, nodding and feeling a little more at ease to see him relax, too.

“There is a brush and comb in the bathroom too,” he added, his eyes glancing at her dark mop of hair. It was beginning to curl like seaweed. He lips quirked, a barely-there smile framed in a dull dusting of facial hair from the late hour. “Perhaps put it to use.”

“Goodnight,” Belle replied after he’d turned, and her lip caught between her teeth when he paused at the top of the stairs. He didn’t reply, simply continued to imp carefully down the stairs. Belle ducked back into the bathroom, rustling in the first drawer she found and finding a brush and comb. Neither looked to be used, and she wondered if he had guests over regularly that he would need to provide for such things. Perhaps he always took in his clients. That didn’t seem right though, and Belle certainly didn’t want to believe that.

On one of the bottles of bath salt, there was a tiny blue ribbon around the cap and Belle quickly stole it. Surely it wouldn’t be missed.

When she stepped into the guest room they’d been offered, Wendell was asleep, flat on his back in the middle of the bed and snoring quietly. He too was wearing a borrowed shirt from the lawyer who’d taken them in like a couple of stray kittens, and his stuffed dinosaur was tucked beneath his elbow. Belle didn’t get into bed just yet, instead walking slowly about the room as she worked the comb and then the brush through her hair. Water sloughed out of the thick locks, and she winced at getting the rug damp. Still, once it was slick and straight, she was able to weave it into a thick braid that draped over her shoulder before climbing into bed.

Combined with the exhaustion, the loss of adrenaline, and the emotional trauma of the past two days, Belle felt herself succomb to darkness before her cheek made it to the pillow.

Waking up was like opening her eyes into a new world. The mattress beneath her was thick and soft, the covers above her pressed, crisp, and delightfully heavy on her weak body. The curtains were open, though there was a lacy overlay behind them that made the bright morning sun just a bit gentler. The fire in the earth was still going, burned low but it had kept the room cozy all night long.

In truth, Belle had never slept so well in all her life. When she opened her eyes enough to take in her surroundings, rolling her head around on the goose feather pillow, the first thing she noticed was that Wendell was gone. His borrowed t-shirt was strewn across the bed where he’d pushed back the covers.

The panic she felt enough to rouse her into sitting was brief, because the next moment she heard life from the floor below. A child’s bubbly giggle that carried through the house, rippling off the walls, and steel clattering quietly in a sink.

As much as she wanted to launch herself from the bed and run, her head was a cloudy and her balance felt off when she put her feet to the floor. It took her long moments to go from sitting, to standing, to feeling her way about until she made it to the door. The house wasn’t nearly as foreboding as it was draped in shadows. The walls were tinted rose, the furniture all antique dark wood and rich, plush coverings. As Belle made her way to the stairs, her eyes floated over the multiple works of art hanging in heavy frames. Splattered water lilies of Monet, thickened mountain landscapes, and even a tapestry that seemed to have Chinese influence, though Belle’s distant schooling was too foggy at the moment to be precise on that estimation.

“Good morning.” The voice was quiet and calm, but it still made Belle jump. She stood on the second landing of the stairs, and Mr. Gold was at the foot. He was unsmiling, though his eyes were pleasant, even hopeful. His pants were black, pressed to precision, his shirt a deep ocean blue and fastened with a lighter blue tie. It looked like it had scrollwork on it, as if a pattern one would find on a piece of china. When she didn’t respond, his eyes glanced down, and he hesitated. “You must be hungry. There’s breakfast, if you want it.”

“Yes,” Belle said, almost before he was done speaking, and gripped the banister as she walked down as quickly as she could without falling, her balance giving her quite a bit of trouble. Gold reached out without speaking and took her other hand, and the touch nearly sent Belle toppling down the rest of the way rather than helping her. Her flinch was too instinctive to hide, but Gold didn’t seem bothered. He simply waited for her to find her balance once she was on the ground floor, then looked at her with measure. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” Belle said glumly, feeling betrayed by her own body.

“Dr. Whale said you suffered a concussion in the accident,” Mr. Gold said, still holding her hand. Finally relinquishing being able to make it the rest of the way, she leaned into the support gratefully, and he nearly dropped his cane in surprise. Perhaps he hadn’t thought she’d take more help. “Are you feeling worse?”

“No.” She wasn’t, at least not worse than last night. She just wasn’t used to feeling so weak and useless. She turned her head towards the sound of another giggle and the low sounds of a television. “Wendell?”

“Almost as early a riser as myself,” Mr. Gold said calmly, and began helping her walk down the hallway towards the kitchen. It was expansive, opening up into a smaller parlor that had a door leading out to the backyard. The small breakfast nook had one, too, and that was where Mr. Gold helped her sit.

“Is he?” Belle asked, grateful to be sitting still for a moment. She sighed, resting her head back. “I wouldn’t know. I don’t get to be with him every day.”

It was the wrong thing to say, apparently. Gold hesitated, a sadness filling his eyes as he turned away and limped into the kitchen. Perhaps it was a rather dour topic, the separation of a parent and child, but Belle couldn’t help but feel lighter. Her good night’s rest maybe went a long way, but she felt optimistic. She had someone on her side, someone who knew about her, who believed her. She was free of that miserable, dark hole in the ground, and she had her boy. They were warm and clean and fed-how could she not feel grateful?

When Mr. Gold returned, he had a bowl of oatmeal. It was golden and cooked a pretty shade of brown on top with something gooey drizzled over it. He hesitated, in his other hand holding a pitcher of orange juice while his cane swayed in the crook of his elbow. “It’s what I gave Wendell,” he looked sheepish. “I didn’t think to ask…”

“It looks wonderful,” Belle said, the honesty of her hunger ringing true. It did. He’d added butter, cinnamon, and honey, and it took everything in Belle not to forgo a spoon and tilt the bowl back into her mouth. Gold relaxed and poured her a glass of juice before disappearing back into the kitchen. When he returned again, he held a cup of coffee in his hand that was so strong it filled the entire room. It wasn’t an unpleasant scent.

“You will tell me if you feel worse,” Mr. Gold said after a time when she was nearly halfway through with the oatmeal. He was just sitting there, drinking his coffee and absently playing with a pale stoned ring on his finger. His voice was quiet, but there was a tone of authority there that told her he would not be crossed on this subject. Not that Belle had any intention of doing so. “Dr. Whale said if you do, I should take you back to see him.”

Belle paused, her spoon halfway to her mouth. She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. “I don’t want to go back there.”

His face softened, and he moved his hands so quickly she nearly missed it-nearly. He was about to reach for her, but instead made a sweeping motion to pick his coffee cup back up. “You wouldn’t be alone,” Gold reminded her, putting the rim to his lips. “And you certainly wouldn’t stay.”

His sincerety was genuine, that much she could tell. She looked back into her bowl of oatmeal and continued to eat. “Are we going to talk about my...situation?” she asked, taking a healthy gulp of juice. It was vibrant and fresh, bursting with so much flavor on her tongue that she nearly spat it back out in surprise. Instead, she took another deep drink.

“Let’s let you wake up first,” Mr. Gold said, watching her and taking another sip of coffee. Belle ducked her head away from his kind, quiet voice. It wasn’t nearly the same as last night-a snarling, throaty command, all fearsome Scottish accent and thick with hatred for anyone who might question him. He was like a different man here, one who was more generous than Belle knew what to do with. She’d never had anyone in her life like this-it was overwhelming.

Once she was full (she couldn’t finish the porridge, for which she was sorry but Gold only smiled again as he removed the dishes), she listened to the studious sounds of clinking metal and running water, content to let her food settle and warm her from the inside out. When he reemerged, Belle pushed herself to standing, feeling a little more steady but with a fresh wave of dizziness. Thankfully she didn’t feel nauseated, though, so she accepted his tentatively offered arm and followed him into the living room.

Wendell sat on the sofa, his short legs just barely hanging over the cushion’s edge. His shoes were still by the door, but his socks were back on his feet, and he was wearing his clothes from the day before. Her heart sank to think they would have to retrieve his things from her father’s house. He looked up when Mr. Gold and Belle walked in and smiled happily. “Good morning, Mama.”

Instead of sitting her next to her son, though, Gold steered her towards a chaise lounge, cream colored and pushed against the far window that was the only one with the curtains pulled. She looked at him questioningly, and he blinked, at that look pausing.

“Would you like a book?”

“Why can’t I sit with him?”

Gold blinked again and then hesitated, glancing back at the boy. “I didn’t...Dr. Whale said you…” he held his breath, looking back at her with such uncertainty it made Belle feel warm in her chest.

“What did he say?” she asked, sitting back gratefully. This chair was reclined, and the fabric was softer than any she’d ever felt, almost like it was made for a nursery.

“Sensitivity to light and sound,” Mr. Gold murmured, rubbing his fingers together in a nervous gesture she’d never seen before, but felt somehow familiar. He was staring at Wendell before he looked back at her. “He said you should rest, I only thought-”

“It’s alright,” Belle said, feeling the need to comfort him. He was growing tense and that made her anxious. She felt the need to soothe him, much like when Wendell was so upset when she was hurt. She relaxed back, not ungrateful for his consideration. Her head did ache a bit, and the cool dimness of the corner of the room, farther away from the television, was appreciated. “This is kind of you. Thank you.”

A half smile curved his lips, and Gold leaned over to draw the folded blue throw at the end of the sofa up over her legs, tucking it in. He seemed so much more at ease, an animal in a familiar environment. In the hospital, outside, he’d been drawn up to look like he could fill any space he occupied. Here, he was just a small, quiet man living a diligent and demure life. “If you thank me after each thing I offer to do, you’ll lose your voice.”

“It’s generally what happens when someone does a favor for you,” Belle said, finally sinking back against the cushions. Her eyes were growing heavy, and the gentle prodding of Gold’s fingers as he tucked the blanket up her legs was soothing. She didn’t realize her eyes were closed until she felt his palm rest over her forehead. Looking up, his smile was kind and if not handsome, then warm.

“It’s no favor,” Mr. Gold said, his voice low with the gentlest rumble. “Rest.”

Wordlessly, she watched him limp away from the corner with adept grace, and he murmured to the young boy on the sofa. Wendell looked at him, then to Belle before squirming off the cushion and shuffling forward to turn the television off. Belle was about to say he didn’t need to-not on her account, but then Gold was limping back out into the hallway and Wendell was trotting beside him. The boy looked unreadable in the lawyer’s presence, and Belle wanted to ponder why her sweet, winsome child who always seemed eager to please and make friends with everyone was withdrawn from their benefactor.

But before she knew, she was asleep with nothing but the ticking of the grandfather clock for company.


End file.
